


10. I’m right here, okay?

by KittenKin



Series: Drabble Prompt Fills [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:48:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23148745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittenKin/pseuds/KittenKin
Summary: Sherlock is unwell.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Drabble Prompt Fills [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605655
Comments: 3
Kudos: 101





	10. I’m right here, okay?

Sherlock is unwell. He’s uncertain of whether he is ill, injured, or poisoned, and that in and of itself confirms his less-than-stellar health. His mind palace is too far away to reach, no matter how hard he tries. Indistinct, hazy as through a fog, only ever a vague blur.

He stops trying to think.

A warm hand smooths back his fringe, and he shivers and tries to curl his entire being into that small curve of comfort. There’s a murmur but he can’t make out the words; they’re far away and muddled, just like his thoughts.

“Mummy?” he asks, confused and not liking it. Uncertain, and uneasy because of it.

There’s more murmuring, and though he can’t make out the sounds it’s almost as comforting as the hand on his brow. He focuses on the warmth, trusts that it will stay with him, and drifts away.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Sherlock is unwell. Perhaps hungover, or crashing. Quite possibly a combination of the two. He’s freezing and aching and tries unsuccessfully to cringe away from his own oversensitive skin. There’s a low murmur and suddenly a warm hand upon his forehead, and he flinches away from the contact instinctively. He’s not being assaulted with the annoying beeps and astringent odor of a hospital room, so there’s little chance of the unknown person being trustworthy.

But the hand persists and pursues, and only checks his temperature. There’s a brief, barely-there caress of his curls and a faint memory stirs, of being small and sick and scared.

“My?” he asks, reverting back to the nickname from a time when he struggled with consonant clusters.

There’s a pause, long enough to make him wonder if the person has left, and then another caress and a soft,

“Rest now, Sherlock.”

He obeys.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Sherlock is unwell. He can recognize the chills and bone-deep ache of a fever, and moans unhappily as he attempts to burrow further into his bed and away from the cruel world that laid him low. Even the mulberry silk pajamas and bamboo sheets feel coarse against his body, but fear of exposing himself to the cold air of his room has him clawing his sheets and blankets tighter over his head.

“Hey, you awake?”

John.

Sherlock opens a minuscule crack in his burrow so that he can whine out some of his misery.

“John?”

There’s a chuckle and then the bed dips as John sits on the edge.

“You’re back, then. Good. You’ve been in and out with fever, and haven’t recognized me the last few times I woke you.”

Curiosity lures Sherlock further out of his blanket nest. He doesn’t remember being nursed, and in fact the last thing he can recall clearly is attempting to escape a nagging headache with a quick kip on the couch. The sight of John smiling fondly down at him derails Sherlock into whinging for sympathy, however, instead of asking for more details of his illness.

“John, I’m dying,” he moans piteously, and throws in a pout for good measure. It only makes his attendant physician laugh again, however.

“Recovering, actually, if you’re well enough to whinge at me. I’m just glad the fever made you compliant enough to drink everything I held out to you. Wouldn’t have wanted to try putting a line in you while you were tossing and turning.” John’s smile grows tight, and he worms a hand under the coverlet to comb through crushed curls. Sherlock feels greasy and gross all of a sudden, unworthy of this affectionate treatment, and wrinkles his nose.

“I’m disgusting. I want a shower and sizzling rice soup with chicken dumplings.”

“Definitely getting better,” John quips with a snort and roll of the eyes. “If you’re not feeling dizzy, then I’ll authorize a shower, but I’m getting you some egg rice porridge too, and expect you to eat it.”

“Tyrant,” Sherlock grumbles, but he begins crawling out of his cocoon and sneaks in a grateful headbutt against John’s shoulder as he does.


End file.
